


Hand To Fist

by levitatethis



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events on the beach bitterness and regret weigh on both men. But nothing can completely wipe out old feelings that linger, anchoring them to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand To Fist

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thank you to: **kalikahuntress** \- for being the first person to rec fics in this fandom, ultimately introducing me to a whole new world worth getting obsessed about, **cellshader** – for reaching out and showing me the creative wonders of writing and editing these characters in an array of situations through her own brilliant work (and thereby inspiring me to consider what I might be able to pull off), and **ladywilde80** – for being as excited about this pairing (and the slew of other characters in XMFC) as I am and serving as my muse (heart and soul) on this fic.
> 
> The three of you really did inspire me to put pen to paper and write my first fic in four (or so) months. Thank you!

_A glowing ember  
Burning hot  
Burning slow  
Deep within I’m shaken by the violence  
Of existing for only you  
I know I can’t be with you  
I do what I have to do  
I know I can’t be with you  
I do what I have to do  
And I have sense to recognize but  
I don’t know how to let you go_   
**\--Sarah McLachlan, "Do What I Have To Do"**

The chessboard sits untouched.

The last game remains half played, frozen in time, meant to be nothing of significance to anyone but them—a brief reprieve until after Cuba, the past splitting into the present when it would all be different but okay, better— now nothing more than a default monument, an artifact stuttering in place with nowhere to go and meaning too painful to contemplate.

It draws curious glances, raises the occasional quizzical expression, collects dust and sympathy but not a word is said. There’s no right time, no acceptable sentiment to be conveyed.

The silence is deafening.

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Erik is sniper precision with calculated ease.

In practice he whips hundred bit metal tornados and deadly blunt hurricanes in an unforgiving attack as preparation for a future he only half saw, one piece (whose importance he could not fathom until it was slipping through his fingers) now missing.

There is a hissed whisper, a crowd of hushed voices, at the edge of his consciousness—

 _He is paralyzed._

Repeated over and over, around darkened corners and in empty hallways when they think he’s nowhere near, it’s a broken record that makes Erik’s skin crawl. He clenches his jaw and fists his hands. They step back as if they can sense the countdown to a metallic explosion emanating from his core. He takes a deep breath. _Calm your mind_. What a joke. He wants to pick up the world and shift it ten feet to the right, for all the good it will do.

They wisely stay out of his way. All but Emma who blankly gazes at him expectantly before going about her business, detached from the tension filled surroundings, and Raven (Mystique she usually insists upon, but for today she only answers to that other name from that other life) who shimmers blue melancholy while looking off into an ever retreating distance.

For a moment their eyes meet and hold until shared sorrow gives way to ‘what’s done is done’ resolve. It’s not over, but they can pretend it is. For now. They have to.

Alone, Erik presses the squashed bullet between thumb and forefinger, feeling the ridges, lines and curves, committing them to memory.

Sometimes he thinks he deserves to choke on it.

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Charles isn’t bitter. He’s in mourning.

His pragmatism can be abstract. His legs don’t work, not like before, but physically he’s still whole. His paralysis is a physical manifestation of an emotional upheaval from which he will never fully recover. Meanwhile he can analyze it, theorize, hypothesize it to death. Confined to a chair lends one’s mind free reign he supposes. An unfair trade then—his legs for his brain.

Intellectually, although he disagrees on the most fundamental level, he can understand what happened and why. He can recognize all the crucial (yet seemingly inconsequential at the time) moments that set things on such devastating path. It changes little. Even if he had changed his own part in it all who’s to say things would be improved. Fact: in his life he has seen people come and go. Some were better gone. Others linger, for better or worse.

Fact: Raven leaving broke his heart.

Fact: Erik leaving wrecked his soul.

There’s an aching emptiness at his centre that he can’t articulate but knows intimately. And though he’s surrounded almost constantly by his team—friends and family always reminding him that he is not alone but part of something genuine and true, something to be proud of—in the quiet that he steals for himself he naively stretches his mind, searching for the barest hint (because he still can’t bring himself to break oaths sworn in childhood or in friendship), wanting those gone to know he thinks of them, wanting to know why they never came to see him because surely by now they know about his long term prognosis—

He wants to know how they are and if they still think of him and what they all tried to build together.

He misses Erik like he misses his legs, which is not as odd a comparison to make as it seems. There are ghostly reminders Erik is still there, as he always was, as he should be, followed by the longing of the absence. He wants to _feel_ Erik, _needs_ to…

All he gets is the void.

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
The war is coming.

Erik works to build up their ranks and despite the unexpected slowness with which his team makes progress, his steely determination sets the tone in the face of distractions that would otherwise certainly veer them off course.

Not that he tries to stop Mystique from seeing Charles. The same pull he resists, she gives into. He wonders how far she’ll get before turning around in defeat. The shame she felt (as much self inflicted as assumed on behalf of others) in hiding her true form when she was on the other side is now matched by the shame she feels in not being there for her brother when he surely needs her most.

In the end she tells Erik she watched from afar as Charles helped Sean train. It was the wheelchair that stopped her in her tracks (Erik raised an eyebrow and she clarified that she had been overwhelmed and Charles hadn’t seen her—“He’s kept his promise to me, even now.”). All she could muster was a muted, “I’m sorry,” silent under her breath before slipping away.

Erik shifts his helmet, considers taking it off, but can’t.

Most of his life he’s trusted no one but himself. He’s seen cruelty firsthand and survived its wrath. Charles is—was— _is_ the first person Erik came to believe in. He’s the first person who demanded nothing from Erik but a chance, to be true to himself and to see that he’s not alone in this world. He sees goodness in Erik, a fact which makes Erik itch uncomfortably. Charles is the only person, besides Erik’s mother, who Erik associates with the notion of love—absolute and resolute. The kind of love that floods his mind with images, sweet and raw, and warms his body with the aching desire for more. For a person used to walking through this world alone still reeling from the beach rebuke, this vulnerability is an Achilles Heel.

If Charles is searching for him Erik will have to shut him out and he can’t bear the thought of inflicting more pain, not now, not after what he’s already done. He can’t accept giving Charles the taste (the unintentional tease) of his mind only to rip it away without warning.

Of course the alternative is just as troubling for Erik.

That Charles is not reaching out for him at all.

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
With Hank taking the reins they rebuild Cerebro.

They pour their hearts (frustration) and souls (driven intent) into it until it’s stronger and more powerful than before. An extension in a way of Charles’ mind, it’s a safe haven from all the tension and questions threatening to undermine any and all progress.

It’s very much a training ground for Charles as he pushes his mind, reach and ability further. His strides, what he discovers he’s capable of doing and the people his team is able to bring into the fold, would have made Erik grin in awe, seeing Charles being bolder and embracing it. Knowing that thrums excitement in Charles, truly unbound and unrestricted by an otherwise confining human body. His mind is a gift most of the time and a weapon when necessary. It’s not a step forward in evolution it’s a leap.

And the person who should be at his side, nudging him along the way, keeping his mind firing through challenging debates and forcing him to reexamine and reassert why he believes integration and equality (not dominance of one over the other); the person who was his confidante for things Charles couldn’t tell the others, the person whom Charles helped shoulder crushing burdens for because he recognized a kindred being, another person like himself, strong, capable of such greatness, of such goodness if only…

The kind of person Charles wanted to share his tiny place in the world with, side-by-side, breath by breath, the space from one to the other inconsequential at best, heated gazes giving way to sparked touches he had never known before, not like that—

That person is gone.

No longer will they stand shoulder to shoulder.

Now it’s toe to toe.

 _Metaphorically speaking_ , he chuckles coolly.

Still, he’s nothing if not hopeful.

  
********** ********** ********** ********** **********

  
Rumours abound.

Attacks that initially appear unrelated carry a fingerprint signature Charles recognizes in their complicated detailing and complex layering. They spin his mind into first gear reminding him of late night conversations across the chessboard.

 _Erik_ , Charles says softly to the now invisible friend who sits in front of him, _always on the attack preparing for the worst._

The more things change…

Lines are being drawn into the ground. Stands are being made.

Counter initiatives that throw carefully executed plans into disarray contain a logistic thoughtfulness Erik admires and misses even in the midst of anger at having his own missions compromised.

 _Charles_ , he thinks affectionately within the protective confines of his helmet as if months apart haven’t altered the scheme, _always trying to pull me from the brink to show me your version of the bigger picture._

The more they stay the same.

Facts take root.

 _Peace was never an option._

 _Neither was war._

…I loved you the most…

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Their first face to face since Cuba happens later rather than sooner.

Expectations prior to their “reunion,” only intensified with so much time apart and contact limited to skirmishes between their teams (extensions of themselves but with half the personal history), are that it will be a devastating battle with no one left standing.

After all too much has been left unsaid, too much has been allowed to fester in the in between, too much uncertainty—about _them_ —hangs in the balance.

They should have known better. All of them should have known better. Expectations built on predictions are for those with little imagination for varied shades of gray.

Eyes on each other and for a few moments the world falls away. In an instant it’s as if the universe reconfigures itself and clicks back into place. The ache of ‘sorry’ and ‘there’s nothing to forgive, not for what you think’ is spoken silently in an unblinking stare.

The wheelchair has done nothing to diminish Charles. He’s still ever the commanding, soothing unflappable presence. Erik, shoulders pulled back and his cape draped down the length of his body, remains unfailingly resolved, ever the cunning leader. They are as they always were; a force to be reckoned with. If only…

There’s no metal in the wheelchair, an ingenious creation that impresses Erik and disturbs him for the implications behind it as to why Charles thinks it necessary. Charles’ gaze shifts slightly and Erik is reminded of the helmet keeping Charles at bay, despite promises from a lifetime ago.

 _Trust issues?_ Erik thinks to himself. _Or we just know each other a bit too well when push comes to shove._

 _I want you by my side._

Distant shouting and a thunderous crash followed by a series of smaller explosions break the reverie. This will be a brief meeting of two old…Friends? Foes? That which still cannot be named? It’s safest to fall back on the familiar.

“Ever the optimist, Charles, still convinced there’s a place for us all.”

“I see your pessimism hasn’t abated. Still intent on tipping the balance?”

“They will never accept us. History has proven their fallibility time and time again. We have to _take_ our deserved rightful place.”

“Oh, Erik. Our rightful place is side-by-side with humans. Being wronged—horribly and unforgivably even—by a few does not give us the blanket right to dominate them, subjugate them, oppress them in return.”

“You still don’t get it. They will unite against us and not think twice about—,”

“Not all of them. I believe that most—,”

“Will what? Embrace us? Let us be who we truly are?”

“There are those who already have. Parents, siblings, friends. These are bridges we must build, relationships we must cultivate.”

“You talk about compromise like it’s the golden answer to all life’s problems, as if it will lead us to some utopian future. You’re either being deliberately obtuse or dreadfully ignorant.”

“And you forget that it was a mutant whose sadistic nature set you on this path in the first place. Not a human. Tell me, did Shaw’s death give you the closure you were looking for or another mantle to pick up?”

 _Aye, there’s the rub._

A hesitation, held breaths, a pregnant pause.

“I will always fight for our right to exist as we are, as we are meant to be without humiliation or apology,” Erik finally states.

“And I will always be here to remind you there is another way, a _better_ way for us all,” Charles counters firmly.

Erik sucks in a sharp, clipped breath, his eyes dancing and body buzzing. The corner of Charles’ mouth turns up a millimeter in the faint hint of a smile. They are both mindful of what has been declared—that despite appearances to the contrary of standing in opposing corners, they are each other’s _other_. For now and always.

Always.

It’s the closest thing to a vow.

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
The first postcard arrives three weeks later.

Alex and Sean see it first and spend a considerable part of the day at the kitchen table trying to decipher the cryptic (and they’re fairly certain contemptuous) message Magneto (not Erik—they haven’t called him that in quite some time, unable to reconcile the man they knew, lived with and trained with as one of their own with the man he’s become) has sent before giving up and handing it over.

Alone in the study, Charles traces a finger over the curved indentations of ink. He looks at the chessboard and, absently rubbing the edge of the postcard under his chin, smiles. It isn’t a threat or a warning. This is an overture.

“What are you planning to do, Erik?” he mutters thoughtfully while pushing the knight as instructed, part of him warmed that Erik remembers how they left the board before it all fell apart. He contemplates all the pieces and considers various strategies until he can see all the possible scenarios that could and should follow, finally prompting him to commit to one of his own moves.

Sitting back in his chair he examines the postcard again. It’s a rather generic picture on the front, a black and white photo of the outside of a quaint restaurant, bathed in shadow and a streetlamp’s light. It makes Charles think of their mutant recruitment road trips and the off the map establishments they stumbled upon and enjoyed in their downtime.

He flips the card over to stare at Erik’s unmistakable writing again and notices a small ink stamp in the bottom right corner. He pauses. Wrinkling his brow he pulls on his memories for one of their layovers until it hits him like a wonderful nostalgic punch to the gut.

 _Of course. And you always said I was the sentimental one._

It sings of affection and, closing his eyes, he can picture Erik deliberately bringing up that night. Not forgotten. Never.

It doesn’t tell him where Erik is but now he has a place to send his response, if he is so inclined. This isn’t an apology for what’s happened. Neither feels the need to ask for one or offer one up. Choices have been made and decisions carried through. Blood and tears, disappointment, sadness has drifted in their wake. But now there’s reignited passion behind purpose and their steadfast commitment to what this world can be remade into in their images.

Of all the things left up to chance, too truthful to state emphatically at the time because there would be no turning back (or walking away), certainties are now on the table.

They are the flipside of one another, different but the same, connected at the core. They exist in relation to each other, redefining the other’s context; constants.

Charles wheels himself away from the chessboard.

He needs to find a pen and pick up a postcard.

  



End file.
